Pride and Pain are One and the Same
by Crescent Moon the Mage
Summary: He had disheveled curls, like gold, and the bluest eyes that Grantaire had ever seen, even from across the room. He was wearing a red jacket, and carrying a mass of papers. A pen was stuck behind his ear. Despite the haughty expression on his face and the way he carried himself, like some sort of pompous ass, Grantaire had to suck in a breath. He was... beautiful. *Pre to MB
1. Chapter 1: Les Artistes Solitaires

**Hello again, my lovelies! If you have come here from More Broken, I welcome you and am glad to have you back. If you haven't, I still welcome you! This is a prequel to More Broken, and I would recommend that you read that one first, if you like. (It's in my Stories list.) You don't have to, of course, this can be a stand-alone.**

**I welcome you all, and I hope you enjoy!**

**-CM**

It was a windy day in late August, and cold enough to warrant light jackets and scarves. The dark haired boy noticed many people in such attire as he sauntered down the street. Then again, he was no different. He was wearing an oversized black jumper with a dark green scarf that whipped around him when he walked. The mass of dark curls on his head were just barely tamed by the faded green beanie he was wearing. He was holding a coffee cup, and the top of something that looked suspiciously like a flask was poking out of the top of his brown bag. His brown eyes were trained down, watching the white tips of his gray Chuck Taylors flash in and out of his vision.

He took a sip of coffee.

Finally, as first bell rang, James Grantaire realized that he could parade about no longer and he finally made the final few steps that took him to the imposing columns of Musain High. It was the first day of freshman year, and Grantaire, a new student from Limoges, wasn't truly afraid. He just really wasn't the school type.

Luckily, he had gone to freshman orientation, and had since learned the layout of the huge school. Making his way down the upper hallway, he stashed his things in his locker, taking a long drink from his flask. The burn of 50 proof whiskey traveled down his throat. He shook his head and closed his locker with a crash.

First period was easy. It was Algebra 2, Grantaire had always been an intelligent one, and math came as easily to him as anything else. The teacher was a dour old man with a stain on his creased tie and a balding head. Grantaire's table partner was a girl called Musicfettucini or some weird name like that. He hadn't bothered to learn it. He wasn't a people person. All in all, it wasn't a bad class, but he did have to groan when the teacher passed out a homework packet and expected them to have it done by Friday.

Then it was back to the locker and to the flask. Grantaire was sad when he realized that his whiskey was nearly half gone already. He would have to bring a bottle in or something.

"You know," said a voice from behind him, "you really shouldn't be drinking at your age." Grantaire was so startled that he whipped about, knocking into a very skinny boy. The ball jar of whatever he had been drinking spilled all over the papers in his hand and fell to the floor with a crash. The boy cursed loudly, kneeling to pick up the shattered jar and mop up the liquid with his sweater. That was when Grantaire got a good look at him. In all honesty, if not for the voice, Grantaire would have been sure that the boy kneeling was a girl. He had long, ginger hair, braided and a flower crown was atop his head. He was wearing an atrocious pink sweater with… _god were those kittens?_

They were indeed. The boy was wearing a _pink _sweater with _kittens _on it. He was also wearing floral skinny jeans and a pair of lace-up brown boots. He was freckled all over.

"Well, don't just stand there, clot, help me clean this mess up!" complained the boy. Grantaire obliged, finishing picking up the jar. They both stood up. "There, now that you've finished spilling my raspberry iced tea all over my new poetry, we can get acquainted. I'm Jean Prouvaire, but my friends just call me Jehan. Well," he said, looking down, "they would if I had any friends."

Grantaire could only blink for half a moment, and then he remembered himself. "Nice to meet you, Jehan. I'm James Grantaire, but you can just call me Grantaire." He extended a hand to shake, and Jehan took it, shaking with a surprisingly firm grip, despite the small hand covered in freckles and something that looked like henna. "Jimmy Grantaire," he said, a glint of mirth in his blue eyes. "I'll remember that. See you for lunch."

With no further ado, the boy who called himself Jehan was gone, vanishing into the menagerie of people in the hall. Grantaire blinked, smiling despite himself. It seemed Paris was full of wonderful people.

Two more classes passed in a haze before it was time for lunch. Grantaire let himself be swept into the tide of people heading for the lunchroom. Lunch was a chicken-and-beet salad, and Grantaire found a secluded corner to eat in. A moment later, Jean plopped down beside him, with a paper bag decorated with flowers and another boy. "This is Feuilly, he's also new," he said by way of greeting. "Now how did you know that I was new?" asked Grantaire. Jehan shrugged. "You practically stink of it. And besides, if you'd been here for middle school, I'd remember you."

"I'm Grantaire," he said to Feuilly.

"Go Poland," replied Feuilly. Grantaire cocked an eyebrow. "My favorite country. They're playing a football match today."

"Go Poland," Grantaire laughed.

The three sat down to eat lunch and soon found that conversation came easily to them. They talked of many things, Grantaire about his paintings, Jehan about his poetry, and Feuilly about the fans that he painted. "It seems we're all lonely artists," commented Jehan.

"Les Artistes Solitaires," said Grantaire. "Sounds about right. But we're not lonely anymore, are we? So that can't be the name of our group."

"Who said we were to have a name?" asked Feuilly. Grantaire shrugged. "Every good group's got to have a name."

"What about Les Artistes Amicales?" suggested Jehan.

"The Friendly Artists?" said Grantaire. "It doesn't work."

They tossed around a few more names, before Grantaire thought of one.

"Les Amis," he said. "Just The Friends. That would do, wouldn't it?"

And it did do.

At nearly the end of lunch, Grantaire was staring about the atrium when he spied them. There were three of them, moving throughout the cafeteria. One of them was tall, lanky, with a blue sweatshirt and thick glasses. He had a mop of chestnut hair. One of them was shorter, wearing purple with a pink bowtie. He seemed to know everyone, and was talking to everyone with a cheeky grin.

And the last one, well, he was hard to explain. He had disheveled curls, like gold, and the bluest eyes that Grantaire had ever seen, even from across the room. He was wearing a red jacket, and carrying a mass of papers. A pen was stuck behind his ear. Despite the haughty expression on his face and the way he carried himself, like some sort of pompous ass, Grantaire had to suck in a sharp breath.

He was… beautiful.

"Who are they?" he asked Jehan, pointing to the three. Jehan sighed. "Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras. Enjolras's the blonde one. Not really as perfect as they look. Nice, really, but very righteous. Courfeyrac's kind, Combeferre's a genius, and Enjolras is the leader. He's a queer fellow, as cold as ice but as bold as fire."

"We should get them to join our group," said Grantaire, entranced.

Jehan laughed.

That night, in the comfort of his own green painted room, Grantaire was sprawled on the bed. He did some homework, as much as was necessary, and then began to draw, without even knowing what he was drawing. In an hour, he had something, and what it was surprised him. He wasn't even sure if it was him that had drawn it, but it must have been, for there was his signature in the corner, a swooping R.

Enjolras was on the paper, in a red jacket, and him as well. They were both dead, Grantaire collapsed on the ground, and Enjolras leaning against a wall. Eight bullet holes pockmarked his red jacket and even in death was he beautiful. His hand clutched a tattered red banner. Great gray wings protruded from his back, the wings of an angel.

One word had he written beneath it, in scrawling script.

_Apollo._

He tacked it in the middle of his blank green wall.

**Question of the Chapter: If you had to use one word to describe Enjolras, what would it be?**


	2. Chapter 2: Un Beau Trou du Cul

**Sorry, this took longer than intended. I had no idea about how to write Grantaire and Enjolras. But here it is. Hope you enjoy! And thanks so much for your positive feedback of Chapter 1! **

**-CM**

On the second day of high school, Joly was worried. He had sneezed that morning, _sneezed! _It could be the beginning of some very bad illness. He wouldn't know how to cure it… he might die! The worry set in to the back of his mind, it made him very scared. He had come early to school, so he could be inside in case it rained.

Reaching his locker, he decided to tie another scarf around his neck, as a precaution, despite the fact that it was nearly seventy outside. He was so concerned for his wellbeing, until…

There was a boy across the hall.

Even though Joly had not seen him before, that was not the issue. Even though he was bald, that was not the issue. It was his open locker. It was so… messy. "Shit… OCD," Joly said. The boy with the messy locker bent down to retrieve something from his messenger bag. Joly crossed the hall, almost on impulse, and began to clean the locker, throwing away the trash that had seemingly accumulated in the one-soon-to-be-two days that they had been in school. He felt harsh eyes on him and he slowly turned around. "What are you doing?" asked the bald boy.

"Sorry. I have OCD, that weird kind that gives you impulses to clean stuff. And your locker was just so… messy."

The boy stared at Joly for another moment, before he burst out laughing. "Well," he said, after his laughing fit was done. "You can certainly clean my locker. It seems to always accumulate bunches of trash. I don't even know how! I'm Laigle de Meaux, by the way."

"The Eagle of Words. It fits, really. I'm Joly Barret. Nice to meet you." The two men shook hands, smiling. Then, Joly continued his cleaning of Laigle's locker, until it seemed shining. By then, students were filling up the hallways. The first bell rang. Laigle looked about. "Well, I'd best get to class. See you soon, Joly!" He closed his locker and walked down the hall.

Joly soon followed suit, stepping into his first class a good few minutes before the second bell. His table partner, whom Joly hadn't the courage to talk to the day before, slid into his seat a moment later, with a laughing smile on his face. "Poland won!" he exclaimed to Joly.

"Won… what?" Joly asked.

"The football game!" replied the other boy enthusiastically.

"Good… good for them," Joly finally stammered, remembering his manners. "I'm Joly."

"Feuilly." The two shook hands, and then class began, disrupting any sorts of casual conversation between them. About halfway through the period, (it was a lecture on Biology,) Feuilly slid a piece of paper over to Joly. "You pass notes?" he mouthed. Feuilly nodded, laughing. He picked it up. It said: **U sitting with anybody at lunch?**

He shook his head and then wrote down: **Why? **on the paper and handed it back to Feuilly. Soon it was passed back. **We're recruiting. You have to pass an initiation test to get into the group, though.**

**What's that? **Joly wrote.

**You have to prove that you are awesome! Which, doesn't really need any proving, because I can tell that you are. So you can just come along. :)**

Joly grinned.

At lunchtime, Feuilly found him again and dragged him to a corner table at which sat two others. A boy with wildly disheveled dark hair was eating a sandwich, and a girl… guy… girl… guy… let's just call them a person… was doodling on their hand while eating salad. Feuilly sat down with a _flump! _The pair looked up… and good, it was a guy. "This is Joly. He has proven his awesomeness and is now worthy to join the round table of the Amis!"

At this, the boy with the long red hair and the striped tank top burst out laughing, much to the confusion of Joly. He looked about and saw that he wasn't the only one. Both Feuilly and the dark haired boy looked equally perplexed. Finally, the redhead stopped his peals of mirth, wiping his eyes. "What was that all about, Jehan?" asked the dark haired boy. "We're not even sitting at a round table! This one's a rectangle!"

Eyebrows were raised.

"Sorry," said the red haired boy, Jehan. "It was just amusing. I'm Jehan, by the way." He shook Joly's hand. Joly smiled, trying to not get freaked out by the fact that there _might be germs _on Jehan's hand. He also shook hands with the dark haired boy, Grantaire, who seemed fairly preoccupied sketching something in a leather-bound sketchbook.

Joly found that they got along fairly well, despite their differences. When he told them about his serious OCD, they just laughed along with him, which made him feel a bit better. "What are you drawing?" he asked Grantaire?" The dark haired boy put down his pen. He showed Joly the page he had been working on. It was a pen drawing, rough in its beauty. It appeared to be a young man, with wildly disheveled hair, staring out of the paper with an intensity a pen could not capture. He finally realized who it was. "Enjolras?" he asked. Grantaire nodded. Unfortunately, someone else had heard his outburst too. Enjolras himself, whom Joly had known since middle school, was at a nearby table. His head whipped up at the mention of his name, and upon seeing Joly, he smiled and stood up, coming over to sit down beside them. Joly looked over at Grantaire, who looked nearly mortified as he stuck his sketchbook under the table. But there was also something else in his eyes… was it adoration?

"I haven't seen you in a while, Joly,"said Enjolras, clapping him on the back and sitting down beside him. Courfeyrac and Combeferre sat down as well, grinning.

"Can you believe we're all in high school now?" asked Joly.

"How did that ever happen?" asked Combeferre, smiling. "Aren't you going to introduce us to all your friends?" said Courfeyrac, looking much like an eager puppy.

"Oh! Of course!" Joly started. "This is Feuilly, Grantaire, and Jehan, he said," pointing at each in turn. Feuilly saluted, Jehan smiled, and Grantaire… well… he was uncharacteristically graceless in that moment. His mouth was slightly open, and he was staring quite unabashedly at Enjolras, as if he was some sort of god. Enjolras looked at him with disdain. "You know, if you hold your mouth open, a fly might fly in," he said distastefully. Grantaire shut his mouth with a snap. "Sorry. I was just thinking about how I need a drink to forget life. Life is just a meaningless invention by somebody I don't know. It doesn't last, and it's good for nothing."

"Why would you want to forget life?" asked Enjolras.

"Well, not really life as much as my sadness about how someone as beautiful as you could be such an asshole." Replied Grantaire. Enjolras immediately got up and left, shooting Grantaire daggers. Courfeyrac and Combeferre reluctantly followed.

"Shit," said Grantaire.

**QotC: Who is your OTP? (All fandoms.)**


	3. Chapter 3: Enjolras, Une Petite Souris

**Sorry for the wait! I meant to have this to you weeks ago, but I got a huge case of writers block. I hope you enjoy!**

**-CM**

Courfeyrac couldn't concentrate on his work, not with thoughts of the _frankly adorable _redhead go bouncing through his head at every turn. It was October, and nearly a month after Courfeyrac had seen him, and he couldn't forget about him. Jehan… that was his name. Why couldn't Courfeyrac forget? He was Eugene Courfeyrac, lover of many a girl and guy alike! So why couldn't he forget the redhead poet?

Enjolras was absent from school that day, and Courf wasn't sure why, but it made everything perfect. He found Combeferre after first period and told him the plan as they walked to class. Combeferre agreed almost immediately, as Courfeyrac knew he would.

After another period, lunch finally came, and Courfeyrac's plan would finally be set into motion. He walked into the lunchroom, looking about. It seemed that Grantaire, Jehan, Joly, and all the rest were still at the same table as they had been last month. Courfeyrac speedily bought lunch and practically dragged Combeferre over to the corner table. Grantaire, dark curls a tangled mess, looked up from his sketchbook and cocked an eyebrow at the duo of them. Courfeyrac dropped into the empty seat between who he remembered to be Bossuet and Jehan. "Hi!" he said brightly. "You guys are the Amis, right? We'd like to join you."

Jehan smiled blindingly, Grantaire nodded in approval, and so they were inducted into the Amis.

Enjolras, when he returned to school two days later with a nasty cold, is furious. "You did what?" he asks, through a heavily stuffed up nose. Courfeyrac couldn't help but laugh at his voice. It seemed disconcertingly like Enjolras was a small mouse shaking his fist up at Courfeyrac, from the sound of his voice.

"We can't really go back on it now. And besides, you don't even know them very well. They are actually very nice people," pointed out Combeferre logically.

"It's only Grantaire who I hate. The rest of them are perfectly fine," Enjolras shook his head.

"Well, we like them. They're nice. Jehan's got cute hair and Feuilly makes fans and Joly always has the cleanest locker and Bossuet's bald and Bahorel's funny and Grantaire's an artist. They're the Amis, they're great!" said Courfeyrac excitedly.

Enjolras sighed. "When have I ever denied you two anything?" he asked. "I'll give them a chance," he said, stalking off. Courfeyrac presumed that he was pouting, something he did quite often, despite his denial.

Enjolras pouted all through morning classes, and finally when lunch came, he practically had to be dragged to the cafeteria. The food line was short, which didn't make him any happier. So sooner than the blond would have liked, Courf was sure, they were walking over to the Amis table. "Hey guys!" he greeted happily. "This is Enjolras, remember him?"

A few heads nodded, and Courf noticed with curiosity the adoring look that came into Jehan's eyes when he saw Courfeyrac. They scrambled to make an extra spot and soon Enjolras was seated between Combeferre, whom everyone knew he loved, and Grantaire, whom the blond steadfastly ignored.

Introductions were made, but not needed. It seemed that Enjolras already knew many of them. That didn't surprise Courfeyrac, Enjolras had lived in this district of Paris since he was an infant. Small talk was easy. It seemed that Bahorel was planning to see a movie that weekend, to which Courfeyrac excitedly agreed to. Everyone acquiesced , deciding a time and theatre before anyone could complain. Surprisingly enough, Grantaire only gave a little, half-hearted nod when he was asked if he'd like to go.

After lunch, Courfeyrac stayed behind to talk to Grantaire, letting the others leave as they walked to class. "What's up?" asked Courfeyrac. "You don't seem happy today."

"I'm conflicted," said Grantaire, a melancholy tone in his voice.

"Why?" wondered Courf. "You don't like zombie movies?"

That made Grantaire laugh. "No, I actually love zombie flicks."

"So what's up?"

"He doesn't want me to go."

"Who?" asked Courfeyrac, even though he was sure he knew the answer.

"The angel," replied Grantaire, looking down.

Courfeyrac wracked his brain, trying to find a suitable response. "I'm pretty sure that Castiel would be fine with you going to see Living with Death." Grantaire cracked into a small smile. Their shared love of Supernatural was no small thing between them.

"But Dean might," replied the artist, his smile getting wider without his permission.

"They're in love, Dean wouldn't care."

That really did make Grantaire grin. He adjusted his green t-shirt and re-tyed his scarf, pointedly not looking at Courfeyrac. "How do you manage to make every horrible situation hilarious?" he asked.

"Because I'm sexy and I know it," laughed Courfeyrac. He smacked Grantaire's arm. "See you later, lovie." With that, he went to class.

When the weekend rolled around, Grantaire was trying to find something to wear to the movies. He convinced himself over and over again that it didn't matter. "It's not like he's even going to care," he reminded himself.

Even so, he stood another half hour in front of his closet before choosing a gray tank with a raven on it and a dark green jacket that he'd found at a thrift shop. He tied his blue Converse and walked out of his dismal room, pointedly not looking at the charcoal of Enjolras that was on his easel or the few drawings he'd tried not to tape onto his walls.

His parents were gone, probably out drinking like usual, but he found some money taped to the counter with a sticky note on it. _Have fun, Jim, _it said, and Grantaire laughed a bitter laugh. Despite the fact that his parents were never there to tell him nice things or come to his events, they never left him short of money.

He grabbed his rusty bike and pedaled down the sidewalks. On the way, he encountered a wild Jehan, on roller skates, going down a hill so fast that his long hair was flying nearly horizontally behind him. Grantaire rode up beside him and Jehan looked pleased to see him. "Why are you so happy?" asked Grantaire.

"There's a big hill coming up. And with you here, I won't have to do anything."

"You can't hang on my bike!" complained Grantaire.

But he let Jean hang on anyway, as the ginger's smug smile told him that he knew he would.

It was a good day, surprisingly.

**QotC:**

**If there was one thing that you would do to change the plot of Les Mis, what would it be? (the funniest answer will be featured in next chapter's AN.**


	4. Chapter 4: Curieuses

**Hello again, darlings! I have… (drum roll please) AN ANNOUNCMENT. This is NOT a prequel to More Broken anymore, because it would kill me if I didn't make E/R canon in this story. Oh well, things change. More Broken was supposed to be completely different too. (Don't kill me) :D**

**Also, school starts tomorrow, so I probably won't update much. I will try, though.**

**The funniest answer to the last question of the chapter: What Would You Change About Les Mis goes to Smiles1998. She said: Save the Les Amis and add a magical bunny named Corn Chip to the story.**

**Love ya all! **

As if on cue, the rain started right as Grantaire stepped inside the movie theatre. Jehan wasn't so lucky, as he'd stayed outside a moment too long to examine a plastic Dalek in a shop window. Grantaire laughed when he heard a shriek, and Jean was running inside, looking amused and angry at the same time, as if that was at all possible. Joly was standing by the ticket counter, and so Grantaire waved him over.

"Do you need to get tickets?" asked Joly, staring bemusedly at the sudden rainstorm.

"Yeah," chorused the two boys. It seemed they were the first to the cinema, and the line was short. Even so, it was not until they had gotten tickets, food, drinks, and seats that Bahorel, Bossuet, and Feuilly walked in. They gratefully took seats beside everyone, shaking out their wet things. It appeared to still be raining.

Finally, the theatre door opened and in walked the rest of the Amis, not a moment too soon. In fact, nearly as soon as Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had spotted them and started walking, the lights dimmed and previews started. That made Grantaire angry, because he hadn't gotten a long enough look at Enjolras. The blonde had been soaking wet, and yet his hair, devilishly, was still in place and he still looked stupidly beautiful. He supposed it was for the better that he couldn't see Enjolras, though, for when the blonde took the only open seat left in their row (beside Grantaire, of course) he could practically feel the loathing radiating from the person beside him. Grantaire pretended not to be offended and then finally gave up on the feeble protest and concentrated on the movie.

It was a good movie, as zombie flicks go. It was all filmed in first person, as if you were the person running and hiding and watching people die. Grantaire thought it all very clever, and very interesting. And since the movie was in surround sound, you were practically immersed in a post-apocalyptic world. At one point in the movie, a stick cracked to the camera's right and every head swiveled to the right of the theatre, including Grantaire's. He caught a swift glance of Enjolras's face, and _dear god, he actually looked scared. _ He thought it a trick of the light and his probably desire-laced brain, but no, he looked again and Enjolras was still there, looking very real, and very vulnerable. Grantaire wanted to take the blonde's hand, but he banished the urge to the very recesses of his brain and took a very necessary swig of Coke instead.

Near the climax, the main character was hiding in a barn surrounded by zombies. All of his friends had been killed, or turned, or eaten, and the protagonist was scared. Grantaire did a slow turn to Enjolras, and the angel looked absolutely terrified. _The one thing this savage Antinous is afraid of, and its zombies_, Grantaire thought. Enjolras turned, just briefly, to meet Grantaire's eyes, and R offered up a little smile, sort of like a "hey, I'm here if you need me, dollophead."

He was fully prepared for the icy glare and the cold shoulder, steeling himself for the inevitable, in fact. But it didn't come. Enjolras was still frowning at him, as usual, but his eyes betrayed a bit of something that might have been soft gratitude. But Grantaire wasn't sure, because Enjolras suddenly turned away, back to the movie, and the moment was gone. That is, it you could call it a moment, (Grantaire wasn't really sure you could.)

The protagonist died, ripped apart by zombies, and yet, R noticed, Enjolras looked a bit less fearful than he had.

Afterward, the rain had abated a bit, but it was still drizzling. Most people trickled out in cars and bikes. Enjolras stayed behind, kicking at a puddle with the tip of one red high-top. To be honest, Grantaire had meant to leave, his bike just wasn't coming unlocked, and it was wet, and _okay, okay, he didn't want to leave until he knew Enjolras had left safely. _

"Why aren't you going home?" he asked, finally, when he had finally gotten his bike unlocked.

"I don't want to walk home in this," Enjolras groused. "It's wet." He sounded very much like a cat that had just fallen into a puddle.

"Oh, and is your precious hair going to get wet?" Grantaire asked sarcastically. Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

"Where do you live?" Grantaire asked.

"Rue De'lAbbe," came the reply. Grantaire smiled wolfishly. "Want a ride?"

"You don't have a car," pointed out Enjolras, tucking one golden curl neatly behind his ear.

"Get on the handlebars," laughed Grantaire. "Unless you want to risk getting your precious shiny shoes wet,"

"Why should I?"

"It's not far. I'll avoid the worst of the puddles."

There was a loud sigh from the angel beside him, but he climbed on the handlebars of Grantaire's old bike anyway. Grantaire climbed on and rang the bell. Enjolras rolled his eyes. "What? Is this a no-fun zone?"

There was no reply, so Grantaire just merrily whizzed off down the street. He tried to slow down on the hill, but Enjolras's hair whipping in his face made it hard to see. Soon, an announcement from Enjolras made him turn down a large, well-paved street. It was filled with huge houses, with gates and fences and gardens and servant's quarters. The home of the rich and powerful, and Grantaire usually hated them.

Not this one, though, he mused, as the blonde haired boy climbed off his bike. He wasn't smiling, of course he wasn't, but he nodded at Grantaire. "Thanks," he said. "I owe you one." Grantaire smiled, laughing. Enjolras scowled. "Don't laugh. Your breath smells like brandy."

Grantaire grinned wickedly, but his heart didn't seem to be invested at the moment. Just when he thought that Enjolras was warming up to him, he had to go and do something stupid like laugh! It seemed that the angel was impossible to please.

Suddenly, he loathed the rich.

Without another word, Grantaire took off on his bike, ready to be off of the street and back in his own home where he could drink and paint. It was better that way. He rode so fast that his dark green beanie, his favorite, flew off his head and landed on the street. He didn't even notice.

Someone did, though.

The angel, watching Grantaire go, wondered why God had seen fit to place such a terribly despicable and yet utterly intriguing boy on the earth. Enjolras hated him. And yet he couldn't stop wondering about him.

There was a scrap of green fabric, lying on the street, and without even realizing what he was doing, Enjolras had strode straight through the largest puddle on the street, soaking his "precious Chucks" and grabbing it.

Curiouser and curiouser.

**QotC: You have been told by Enjolras to tell Marius that he needs to stop stalking a girl he's never met. How do you break this news to Marius? (Funniest gets a shoutout next chapter.)**

**Love ya!**

**-CM**


End file.
